


Taps

by asteroidhearts



Category: Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: 'Taps' is a dead giveaway, Army, F/M, Sad, Wakes & Funerals, bucky isn't present bc reasons, it's really sad, y'all already know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-15
Updated: 2016-02-15
Packaged: 2018-05-20 20:47:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6024271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asteroidhearts/pseuds/asteroidhearts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve said he would return.  Instead, it was a flag that came back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taps

**Author's Note:**

> i'm sorry.
> 
> tips before reading: watch a military funeral ceremony on YouTube to better understand most of what's happening here.

 

 

I was in Air Force Junior ROTC when I was younger.  In college, I joined senior Army ROTC.  I know the procedure at funerals and memorials for military personnel.  After all, I had the opportunity to be part of the honor guard that performed the flag-folding ceremony at my JROTC instructor’s funeral.  At that event, I didn’t have time to focus on the casket being lowered into the ground; I could only concentrate on saluting with precision and maintaining my overall bearing.

 

Today is different.  Today, I’m not part of the Army honor guard detail nor am I part of the firing squad.  I’m not the uniformed bugler nor am I a member of the band platoon or color guard placed about fifty meters away from the casket.  I’m not on the armed platoon either.

 

It is the third of July.  Summer is peaking at Arlington National Cemetery.  It is warm, sunny, and everything is more vibrant under the big bright sun.

 

Today, I am one of the mourners.

 

I feel a hand slowly wrap around my right arm.

 

“Don’t be afraid,” Natasha says.  Only I hear her words.

 

Apart from my instructor’s, I’d been to just another one funeral, several years later.  My lovely mother, a single parent who cared for me through thick and thin since my father left, was fifty-three when she passed away, just two weeks after I was hired at Stark Industries as an industrial psychologist.  I had just turned twenty-five.  It was the very first leave I filed.

 

Today marks the third funeral I attend.

 

Two rows of eight chairs are lined in front of a metal framework where the casket would be laid.  The first row is occupied by Clint, Nat, me, and Fury; the row behind us sits Thor, Pepper, Tony, and Bruce.  We are all standing, and even though the team is freshly patched up from battle, they endure the heat and silence.

 

Natasha holds onto my wrist softly but with a protective firmness.  It isn’t like I’m going to do anything rash, but I don’t shake away her control.  My body is numb, and I’m afraid that if I do so much as shift my weight, I would fall over.

 

Two days ago, Steve Rogers strolled into one of the conference rooms at SHIELD for a mission briefing.  He donned his stealth uniform, shield perched safely on his back.  I was sitting at the far end of the table, requested by Fury to take notes.  I remember the grin Steve flashed when he saw me.  He then took the long way to where I sat.

 

“Sweetheart,” he mumbled, giving me a soft peck on the forehead before sitting himself to my left.  It helped that there was no one else in the room yet; he wasn’t too affectionate in public.

 

I smiled.  “You’re looking sporty.”

 

He chuckled, placing an arm around my chair.  “Yeah, new mission.  What’re you doing here?”

 

“Fury wants me to observe,” I said, tapping the leather journal on the hardwood table.

 

“You work too hard,” he muttered, his face inching closer to mine.

 

I raised an eyebrow.  “Says the one on his second mission of the week.”

 

Steve’s eyes traveled down to my mouth.  “Touché.”

 

He closed the distance between us, pressing hard onto my lips.  The door busted open.

 

“ _Alright_ , Cap!  Get it!”  Tony’s voice boomed.

 

I pulled away, laughing.  Steve closed his eyes, locking his jaw and shaking his head.

 

The briefing ran smoothly enough.  Though Steve put on his game-face, the one that was the epitome of _serious_ – jaw-locked, eyebrows furrowed, blue eyes darkened – he didn’t leave me alone.  His fingers were intertwined with mine, never going past rubbing his thumb against the knuckle of my thumb.  I kept up with my note-taking, inputting opinions whenever Fury asked for advice, all while thumb-wrestling Steve under the table.

 

Steve and I were the last ones to exit the conference room.

 

“Mission's in Northern Italy, huh?  Sounds like a vacation,” I said jokingly.

 

“I wish,” he said.  His eyes then lit up.  “You know, that gives me an idea.”

 

“Oh, no.”

 

“Oh, _yes_!” he exclaimed.  I watched him as he proceeded to go on a thrilled rant about his idea.  “When I come back, you and I’ll take a leave, and we’ll go on a vacation.”

 

I giggled.  “To Italy?”

 

“To anywhere!”  He gripped my arms excitedly.   My face breaks out into a large smile as I looked up into his eyes.  “Italy, France, _Florida_ – anywhere at all.  Plus, my birthday’s coming up.  I’d like to spend it with you.”

 

“Deal,” I said, crinkling my nose up at him.  “When you come back.”

 

“I _will_ come back,” he leaned down and kissed the tip of my nose.  “I want to walk Main Street with you.”

 

I stared into the blue of his eyes, allowing myself to get lost in them as I’d done in the past two years.

 

“I love you a lot.”

 

His face softened.  “I love you a lot, too.”

 

“Good.”  I stood on my tiptoes and kissed him.  “Now go save the world.”

 

The session ended at 11:37 AM.  Exactly ten hours later, while I was cooking dinner for Steve and me, I received an urgent call from the Tower.  Everything else that followed was nothing but a blur.

 

The honor guard detail that the Army provided carries the white casket with ease, as if it weighs nothing, as if it contains nobody.  Their bearing is amazing.  On the lid of the casket rests a crisply ironed American flag, covering majority of it.  I stare at the stars and stripes, gulping every now and then, purposefully ignoring the easel placed across from me where a refurbished ’43 photo of Steve in his captain’s service dress uniform is framed.  I don’t know why I’m not crying.

 

The detail lowers the casket to the metal framework with a sharpness that I like to believe I performed with at my instructor’s funeral.  The casket lands with nary a sound, and as soon as it is leveled on the framework, the detail adjusts the flag atop it, then they stretch it sharply, lifting it to folding level.  The commander of the detail raises his right arm ceremoniously, ending at the tip of his wheel hat in a perfect salute.  Away in the distance, the commander of the armed platoon commands a “ _Present arms_ ”; you could hear the click of the rifles as the platoon presents them.  The guide-on bearer lowers the guide-on; the color guard stands stock still, its riflemen presenting their rifles.

 

Farther off, at least fifty feet away from us, the firing squad is commanded.  The seven-man detail fires the first of the three-volley salute, the explosion of the blank cartridge bouncing off of my chest.  None of us flinch.  They fire another round.  You can hear the clink of their rifles when they are cocked.  Finally, the last round is fired, and they return to present-arms.

 

Separated five meters away from the rest of the band, the lone bugler plays the first note of Taps.  The band joins with its drums.  It is the longest note in the world to me, and the beat of the drums resonate within my ears like a drone.  Directly behind me stands Pepper; I feel her hand rub my back sympathetically.  I keep my head low.

 

Taps is exactly one minute long when played correctly, or at least that’s how I was taught.  Before my instructor’s funeral, we were advised to count in our heads exactly sixty seconds before our commander could lower the salute and we begin folding the flag.  In real time, the Taps right now is a minute long, too… but it has to be the most painful minute I’ve ever gone through.

 

There was always something I morbidly adored about military funerals.  The vibe always demanded respect and proper observation.  The personnel are in service dress uniform, and in this heat I feel bad for them.  A military ceremony has routine, but the way it is presented at any given event is more unique than the other.  One could argue that military ceremonies are boring, but they’re not performed to entertain.  They’re performed to commemorate.

 

At every military funeral, after the flag is folded, it is given to the next of kin of the deceased.  I selfishly worry if the flag will be given to me or not.

 

There is a pause after Taps, allowing the honor guard commander to lower his salute; and the armed platoon, color guard, and firing squad to order arms then go to parade rest.  I have the sudden urge to mimic the act, though it’s been ages since I handled a rifle and I’d probably look foolish in front of friends and personnel.

 

Immediately, the bugler begins to play “Amazing Grace”.  To the tune of the familiar hymn, the honor guard begins folding.  It may look haphazard to some, but there is finesse in the way they fold the flag.  Natasha hugs me with one arm, her hand now resting on my forearm.  I keep my eyes on the detail, watching the eight pairs of white-gloved hands handle the flag.  The song is perfect, ending exactly when the flag reached the commander via the hands of four of the detail.  The flag, now folded into a triangle bearing only a field of blue dotted with white stars, rests on the commander’s palm as the honor guard marches away.

 

When the commander executes a right face, my heart begins pounding.  I don’t know if he will hand the flag to me or to Fury.  The direct next of kin, of our crowd, is technically him… but I remain hopeful.

 

The commander stops in front of me, and that is when my lips begin to tremble.  My eyes now pour.

 

“On behalf of the President of the United States,” the commander says.  His voice is muffled through the sound of my weeping.  “And the people of a grateful nation, I present this flag as a token of appreciation for the honorable and faithful service your loved one, Captain Steven Rogers, rendered this nation and the people of the world.”

 

My breath hitches as I unconsciously tighten my grip on the flag.  I can’t believe it was handed to me.  As the commander salutes the flag, then retreats to his position at the head of the casket, and I embrace the flag, and he salutes the casket one more time, my shoulders shake beyond control.  It takes Nat’s full strength to squeeze some sense into me.

 

I continue sobbing, my head falling onto her shoulder.

 

“It’s okay,” she whispers to me, raking a hand through my hair.  “We’re here.  He’s here.”

 

If there is someone who could convince me that Steve is somewhere close, it is Nat.  I hold onto her every word.  My friends form a close circle around me, enveloping me in a huddle that didn’t do much of anything but cause more sweat among us.  We are all wearing white; it cools us off a bit.

 

I don’t remember much of anything that happen next.  I think Pepper gave me her sympathies, and I think they all lingered around for a bit more.  Tony excuses himself as he converses with someone on the phone, something about keeping security tight at the entrances.  We are far from the gates, but I would guess that tons of supporters and admirers are here as well.  The President simply couldn’t attend due to foreign matters, but he extended his support via a nationally televised interview earlier in the day.

 

One by one, the team walks over to the cars parked by the curb not far from the casket.  The last one to leave is Nat, providing me just enough company before leaving me to my own devices.

 

The flag is rough in my hands.  Tears have not stopped falling from my eyes, though I’m no longer noisily weeping.  Still, I don’t make any effort to wipe them away.

 

I brave myself to glance up at the easel.  Steve is unwavering in his olive-green uniform.  My heart skips when my eyes meet his.  He said he would come back.  I won’t see him again.  The thought doesn’t hit me, until it does.

 

“This isn’t fair, Steve,” I say to the easel weakly.  “We were supposed to go on vacation _together_.  They don’t sell plane tickets to heaven, you know.  It’s a little harder for me.”

 

I imagine him chuckling, eyes twinkling at me.

 

“You saved the world…” I croak.  “I already miss you… This is so hard.”

 

I hug the flag close to my chest, the remnant that came back when he didn’t.

 

“I love you a lot, okay?”  I mumble at the casket.  “Never leave my side, please.  I love you.”

 

I think I sat there for an hour longer.  The outside world really has nothing important for me, but one of these days I would have to snap back into reality and… live?  How does one live after losing the only person left whom they care about?  I won’t _live_.  I’ll only _exist_ , and there’s a difference.  Steve was that difference.

 

_Steve, I don’t know how long it will take for me to move on or how I’m going to get through this.  It’s going to take some time.  But Steve, my love, I’ll always love you.  You said you would come back, but I got a flag instead.  You served your country well, saving the world in the process.  The least I can do is keep this flag safe.  I’ll keep it safe for you._

 

 


End file.
